At nine I notice Andrew is asleep in a chair. I rise around 10:30. And write up the first three days of the trip. What a good boy I am.
At 13:30 I give Andrew a kick. He mumbles something and falls straight back to sleep. I try him again 30 minutes later. With more success.
“What have you been writing?”
“Just notes about the trip.”
“Putting words into my mouth again?”
“No, I do that later. When we get back.”
“So, you admit that you make things up?”
“Not at all. You’ve said all the words I attribute to you. Just not necessarily in the same order.”
“Nothing I actually said, then.”
“It’s in the spirit of what you say.”
“Next, you’ll be telling me that it’s an ‘homage’.”
“That’s it exactly.”
“Fuck off, Dad. Homage is just a euphemism for plagiarism.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes.”
He should be more grateful for me immortalising him in print. The git.
What's the plan for today? Go to Woollies to stock up on food. At least to start with. It's only just down the road.
It's fascinating to look at the prices. Meat is still dirt cheap. It's frustrating to see all the lovely, cheap roasting joints. If only I had access to that meat in Amsterdam. They even have instant roasts. Hot roast chicken and roast pork in a bag.
We can’t find any sandwiches so ask a member of staff. The relevant shelves turn out to be empty. That’s why we couldn’t find sandwiches in the first place. We go for go-it-yourself, buying some rolls, sliced cheese and ham.
The prices aren't quite so cheap in the attached BWS (offie). Andrew gets some Swan Draught and cider. While I pick up a bottle of Kentucky whiskey and one of Bundaberg rum. It comes to an eye-watering $175. Ouch.
We chill in our room for a while and make sandwiches.
There seem to be very few pubs in the city centre. I’ve spotted some former pubs while walking around. But no live ones.
“Where are the pubs?”
“I’ve found one, Dad.”
“Where?”
“On the internet.”
“Very funny. You know what I mean.”
“Not far. A 19th-century pub.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Exactly. Your sort of old man pub.”
“Traditional boozer.”
“Yes, old man pub.”
“Not coming, then?”
“Of course, I’m coming. I like old man pubs. You’ve taken me to enough of them.”
“I’ve been such a good father.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Around 4 PM we head to the Royal Hotel. By pure coincidence, it's happy hour and pints are $10. Which sounds like a bargain to me. Especially as that applies to craft beer as well as industrial swill.
The Royal is a typical big, old Aussie pub. A handsome corner building with large cast iron balconies. Sadly, the ground floor has been taken over by a pizza place and the pub relegated to the first floor. Where several rooms are served by the same long bar counter. There’s also seating outdoors.
We sit om a balcony overlooking the main railway station. Commuters bustle around below us. A giant advertising screen blasts out light. It’s the busiest I’ve seen the city.
“I think I’ll try the Melbourne Bitter, Dad.”
“Why?”
“Just wondering what it’s like.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s crap. Maybe even worse than Vic Bitter.”
“I’ll find out soon.”
I have a Balter XPA. Which is fine. Unlike Andrew's beer.
“You were right, Dad. It is crap. Not as bad as Bavaria Pils, though.”
“That’s a very low bar. Nothing is as bad as Bavaria Pils.”
Surprisingly, he opts for something different for his second pint. Something that turns out to be a sludge IPA. Though it actually isn't that bad. For a sludge IPA.
We manage to get three pints in before the end of happy hour. Then stay for another round. Of $14 pints. We chat and watch the world go by as the light fades.
I'm a bit hungry when we leave. And suggest going to Arirang, a Korean place I spotted yesterday. You can’t go wrong with Korean food.
I order a street food platter, which we share. It's pretty damn good. The fried chicken, especially. Andrew has a Cass beer. And some of my soju. The thieving bastard.
“I didn’t say we were sharing the soju.”
“But they brought two glasses.”
“So, I could have one for each hand.”
“No, because soju is for sharing, Dad.”
“You would think that. But have a glass.” I say through gritted teeth.
“Cheers, Dad.”
“Cheers.” You twat. I don’t say the last bit out loud. Obviously.
By the time we're done they're closing. Even though it’s only just about 8 PM. Blooming hell, this is a quiet town.
We walk back to our hotel through pretty much deserted streets.
“Why is it so quiet?”
“No idea, Dad.”
“It can’t be blamed on Sunday.”
“Maybe word got around that you were in town.”
“You cheeky twat.” I come back devastatingly. Andrew just looks at me in awe. At least, I think that’s awe.
Back in our room, we have more quality father and son time, drinking some drinks and watching YouTube.
I turn in around midnight. Andrew, probably five or six hours later.
The Royal Perth
531 Wellington St,
Perth WA 6000.
https://theroyalhotelperth.com.au/
Arirang Korean BBQ Restaurant
91-93 Barrack St,
Perth WA 6000.
http://www.arirang.com.au/
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment